Puddlejumpers

by Mark Jean, Christopher Carlson

  For the first time, Ernie could see a clear path to the furnace. I’m going to make it. I’m almost there!

  The battle-weary Puddlejumpers cheered as he sprinted the last few yards onto the platform above her mouth. Flinching from the intense heat, Ernie ripped the Acorn off his neck and raised his arm to jam the Crystal down the Hag’s fiery maw.

  But Holsapple, waiting in the shadows behind her ear, was ready, too. He vaulted onto the platform, snatched the Acorn from Ernie’s hand, and throttled him like a rag doll. Yawping victoriously, the Trogg held the Crystal in one hand and the Rainmaker in the other.

  The Puddlejumpers collectively gasped as Holsapple dangled Ernie over the Hag’s snapping jaws. But Ernie’s mind was crystal clear, as if he could see all of his thirteen years in the same instant, and something Russ said that first day on the farm came rushing back. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.” Reaching back, Ernie yanked the cattail plunger from its quiver and braced it against his shoulder. Knowing he only had one shot, he took aim and pulled the barrel toward him. A burst of water nailed Holsapple right between the eyes.

  The Trogg reeled backward to the edge of the furnace, losing his grip on the Crystal Acorn. Ernie watched the Acorn roll across the Hag’s cheekbone and down her neck. Tossing the plunger, Ernie yanked the pocket watch off his chest and, swinging it by its chain, smacked the Trogg as hard as he could right on his temple. In that instant, Harvey Holsapple knew he was doomed, but he also knew he was going to take the Puddlejumper boy down with him. Laughing perversely, he toppled into Hagdemonia’s mouth with Ernie still in his hand.

  The Jumpers fell to their knees as their Rainmaker disappeared into the furnace, not seeing that his belt had caught on one of the Hag’s jagged teeth. Ernie dangled, nearly roasting alive. Unbuckling his belt, he scrabbled out of her mouth, burning his hands on a white-hot tooth.

  Choking on the swallowed Trogg, Hagdemonia erupted from her rocky bed in a fit of rage, catapulting Ernie, Jumpers, Troggs, and Grunts in every direction. She lurched to her feet, wailing like a banshee and ripping cables from her body. Oil spurted from the broken pipelines, igniting fires throughout the Most Dark.

  Caught in the whirlwind, Ernie was thrown all the way to the edge of the lava river. Rising groggily to his knees, he caught a glimpse of something glittering near an overturned boxcar. My Crystal Acorn. Shielding his face from the smoke and fire, he slogged up the rise through rubble and ash to recover it.

  Armed once again, Ernie turned to confront the monster, but for the first time in the great battle he stood paralyzed, the Acorn forgotten in his hand. Standing before him was a four-story towering inferno. Belching fire, Hagdemonia lurched straight for him, the entire cavern quaking with her every step. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t make himself run. He couldn’t do anything.

  At that moment a single Hooty-hoo cut through the darkness like a peal of thunder. It was Runnel. She hooted again, this time even louder. Root echoed her call, then Greystone, Cully, Buck, and Chop. Soon every Jumper was shouting Hooty-hoo until the Most Dark resounded with the deafening tribal cry. “HOOOOOTY-HOOOOOOO!”

  The Troggs and Grunts covered their ears. It was the first time the Puddlejumper call had ever been heard in the Most Dark, and the sound was so foreign, so completely unexpected, that it froze even the furious Hagdemonia.

  Roused by their summons, Ernie found his last ounce of courage. He sighted his target, then reared back, kicked his leg high, pushed hard off his back foot, and hurled the Crystal Acorn straight into her fiery mouth. “Steee-rike!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  The Hag staggered backward, stunned. For a moment she wavered, then rose again to her full height and spit the Acorn with such force it buried itself in the soot at Ernie’s feet. With a terrible shriek, she charged. Ernie’s pulse pounded in his ears as he frantically dug to reclaim his Crystal. But before he could wind up and throw again, Hagdemonia snatched him in a claw, lifted him to her mouth, and swallowed him whole.

  Horrified, the Puddlejumpers listened to Ernie’s defiant “Hooty-hooooooooo!” as he toppled down her gullet. The call echoed to silence.

  Hagdemonia screeched victoriously, proclaiming the death of the Rainmaker. The battle for the Most Dark had come to its bitter end.

  But unbeknownst to Hagdemonia, Troggs, and even Puddlejumpers, Ernie had kept the Crystal Acorn in his grip as he was swallowed alive. Now inside her murky stomach, he felt his chest burning from holding his breath. Struggling to stay conscious, he swam blindly against the turbulent current until he could feel the mushy wall of her stomach. He thrust his fist into the flesh and planted his Acorn just before a surge swept him into the dark recesses.

  In the warmth and moisture of the Hag’s bowels, the Acorn germinated and began to sprout. Delicate tentacles grew into sturdy vines that shot up, down, and sideways throughout her entire body.

  Hagdemonia stared in horror as roots burst through her feet, anchoring her to the bedrock of the Most Dark. She writhed in agony as branches exploded from her body, then howled with demonic protest as her torso transformed into a trunk. Finally, her hateful face crinkled to bark, silencing her forever.

  The Jumpers watched in awe as the great tree surged upward. Water poured from its every blossom and leaf to douse the burning river and extinguish every fire in the Most Dark. The Troggs and Red Grunts howled and cursed and tried to bury themselves in the scorched earth, but the water thundered down and drowned them in a merciless flood.

  In the Up Above, the oak smashed through the foundation of the Holsapple manse and water roared through the cellar, corridors, and secret passageways. Titanic branches invaded the kitchen, dining room, and great hall, destroying the posh furniture, antiquities, and stolen loot. The jars of eyeballs from the pantry watched the stuffed buffalo float past, and the mounted animal heads seemed to smile with their final revenge as the current swept them away.

  A tidal wave surged up the stairways, and water drowned every story and cascaded from every window. The manse protested with a last shuddering boom as the house imploded in a swirling vortex, and the earth swallowed it whole.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Return

  IF STARS HAD EYES, they might have seen a great horned owl soaring out of a night sky toward a profoundly still turquoise lake. The full moon shimmered on the water like a beacon as the owl circled the giant oak, only its leafy crown visible at the center of the lake. There, in the uppermost branches, the bird settled beside the lifeless body of Ernie Banks.

  The lake began to ripple, as if it were raining from below. Tiny hands broke the surface—first Runnel, sputtering and gasping for air, followed by Root and Chop, Cully, and Buck. Soon the whole tribe bobbed to the surface. They swam steadily toward their Rainmaker, buoyed on the oak’s lonely pinnacle.

  Ernie Banks had fulfilled the ancient prophecy of MotherEarth, but had paid with his life. The Puddlejumpers retrieved the body of their fallen hero from the oak and ferried him to shore.

  With Greystone leading the way, Root, Runnel, Cully, and Buck carried Ernie’s limp body on their shoulders along the boundary fence. Like a mournful wind, the tribe followed behind.

  As the moon dipped below the horizon, the procession crossed into Frazier land. They laid Ernie’s body on a bed of wheat. Birds and animals emerged from nearby nests and dens to watch respectfully as Buck and Cully carefully peeled away his burned and tattered clothes. After Greystone washed his body with morning dew, Pav dressed his burns with a balm, then covered him with stalks of wheat.

  The tribe chanted a farewell song as each Puddlejumper passed by to touch the heart of their Wawaywo. When the song drifted away with the wind, Root and Runnel knelt next to Ernie. Root steadied his foot as Runnel gently pinched the Spiral Tattoo between her fingers. Whispering farewell, she pulled the thread, unwinding it from his flesh until it stretched between her fingers and his foot.

  Runnel held her hand to the east and waited for the sun.
As the warm sphere broke the horizon, its golden light surged through her palm, shimmered across the taut thread, and fired into the sole of Ernie Banks. There was a deafening thunderclap and a blinding flash…and the Puddlejumpers were gone.

  At the Frazier farmhouse, the thunderclap rattled the windows and woke Russ from a fitful night’s sleep on the couch. Still dressed in his work clothes, he slipped into his boots and went to the kitchen to make coffee. As he stood at the sink and filled the pot with water, he looked out the window and saw the sun rising over the fields. The eastern sky was a swirl of color, and a gentle breeze swept across the plateau. Something in the air felt different. It smelled like rain, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  Russ went down the hall and opened the crib room door. Joey was still asleep cuddled beside her mother, their blanket kicked to the floor. He was retucking it when a staccato rapping startled him.

  Russ followed the sound to the kitchen and opened the door. There, as on the day of his son’s birth, the elfin mobile dangled from the sill, except now the empty harness cradled a carved figure of Ernie Banks, Cubs cap and all. A gust of wind blew the mobile, and the elves chimed together in a dance around the boy. Feeling faint, Russ braced himself against the door and stared at the carved figure of Ernie. He remembered the last time he’d seen the boy handcuffed in the sheriff’s car, driving away. Now Ernie’s words echoed in his memory.

  “I can make it rain! I’m Shawn Frazier!”

  Russ looked beyond the mobile to the deep blue sky streaked with hues of amber and gold. He went outside. A raindrop splashed against his hand. Another landed on his shoulder. From a cloudless sky, the long-awaited rain began to patter down. Russ arched his neck to let the water wash his face.

  Before his very eyes, the wheat in his field seemed to revive, as if waking from a deep sleep. For the first time since his baby had been taken away, he dared to believe.

  The steady rain woke Ernie Banks from his dead sleep. He sat up and saw that he was naked, his body covered in wheat stalks. He was in a muddy hollow in the upper field, his sneakers, Cubs cap, and clothes in a pile beside him. Even Russ’ watch was there, though the lid was dented and its crystal was cracked. How did I get here? Where are the Puddlejumpers?

  As he stood to get dressed, he realized that the wheat only came to his waist. He was no longer tiny! He checked the bottom of his foot. The Spiral Tattoo, the tattoo that had been there his entire life, was gone.

  Turning in every direction, he called through cupped hands, “Hooty-hooooo!” He couldn’t believe they would abandon him like this, and he wailed desperately to the rain.

  “Hooty-hooooo…“

  In the farmyard, Russ listened spellbound to the distant cry. It was the same sound he’d heard from the fields the night of Shawn’s kidnapping. Suddenly he felt more alert than he’d ever felt in his entire life.

  The calls carried down the slope and through the falling rain, “Hooty-hooooo! Hooty-hooooo!” Russ stepped to the edge of the wheat. Though his voice was tentative, he tried to imitate the strange sound as he called out, “Hooty-hoo.”

  The voice responded from high up in the field. “Hooty-hooooo!”

  With growing conviction, Russ hurried through the wheat toward the ridge above. He called again, this time louder, “Hooty-hooo!”

  In the upper field, Ernie listened, transfixed, to the sound of the distant voice.

  “Hooty-hooooo! Hooty-hooooo!!”

  Then he was running, running as fast as his legs had ever run, running through the wet wheat as the calls echoed closer and closer. He stopped and searched the sloped field, but all he saw was a steady rain. Suddenly a man appeared on the crest of the ridge, calling, “Hooty-hoooo!”

  Ernie had waited a lifetime for this moment, and now he shouted the one thing that mattered most. “Dad!”

  Russ shouted back, “Shawn!”

  Father and son sprinted toward each other with all their might until they clung in a tight embrace. All around them the rain pattered the earth in a jubilant song.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Home

  SO IT REALLY WAS Ernie Banks—well, Shawn Frazier—who brought back the rain and ended the drought, just like he’d promised. That fall, thunderstorms danced up and down the Warbling River plateau every afternoon, and the wheat was restored and the earth turned green once again.

  Of course, Shawn hadn’t done it all by himself.

  On the morning it started to rain, Sheriff Dashin caught wind of trouble on the Holsapple property and went to investigate. He nosed his squad car to the shore of an expansive turquoise lake with a giant oak tree at its center. Its trunk had grown another hundred feet and it towered over the water. Stupefied, he stepped from his car. There wasn’t a trace of the derrick wasteland or the Holsapple estate. He waddled to the edge of the lake, where he stooped to fish Harvey Holsapple’s ebony cane from the shallows. He was scratching his head when his car abruptly sparked to life and crept toward the lake. He tried to stop it, but his cruiser pushed him backward and he stumbled into the drink. Sputtering curses, he surfaced just in time to see his precious squad car gurgle a last time before disappearing beneath the water.

  The mystery of the Quilt Baby was never completely solved, but the authorities were able to answer most of the who, what, where, and why of it all. Most folks were shocked to learn that the Holsapples were kidnappers, but they’d never liked them much anyway, and people just figured they got their due. Neither they, Dicky Cobb, nor any of the oil riggers were ever seen again.

  For the second time in his life, Shawn became a celebrity. Television crews arrived from all over the state and led off their evening newscast with the story of a kidnapped boy returning to his father after thirteen years.

  At Lakeside, Mrs. Annie McGinty choked on her morning coffee when she read the story on the front page of the Chicago Tribune. The headline blared, “Young Ernie Banks Hits One Home.”

  Trucker Joe Beason laughed out loud when he read the article in the Chicago Sun-Times, “The Miracle of Lake Holsapple.” It had to be the same Ernie Banks he’d picked up during that blizzard ten years before. When his pregnant wife, Shona, warmed his coffee, he showed her the story and, for the very first time, told her about his part in it all.

  The day Shawn Frazier returned, life on the Warbling River plateau changed forever. In the weeks and months that followed, tourists continued to travel old Highway 99 to see the turquoise lake and its giant oak tree. In town, business was booming. The Sinclair station was refurbished and the Trading Post became a popular stop again. Gram and Gramp Atwater bought the old Turkey Roost and reopened it as the Oak Tree, featuring Gram’s homemade pies. It became so popular that on Friday and Saturday nights the line to get in stretched all the way to the post office.

  As it turned out, Russ was able to keep the farm, and Shawn got his old room back. Joey got the extra room down the hall and a new brother—that is, after Betty and Russ got married. The ceremony took place on the shore of Lake Holsapple, and everybody was invited. Shawn stood proudly next to Russ as his best man, while Joey, her mother’s maid of honor, never stopped smiling.

  There hadn’t been much to celebrate in a good long while, but that day, people made up for lost time. In the midst of the eating and drinking and dancing, Betty, still in her wedding gown, led Russ, Shawn, and Joey down to the lake for a swim. People laughed and applauded, and before it was over, the whole town ended up in the water. It was a night to remember.

  Shawn never saw Mrs. McGinty or the Lakeside Home for Boys ever again, though he and Russ did make the trek to Chicago to look up Nate and his family. It was a reunion both friends had thought would never happen. Nate and his dad joined Shawn and Russ for an afternoon game at Wrigley. During the seventh-inning stretch, singing with their fathers, Shawn and Nate shared a wide grin. They didn’t have to say a thing.

  The Cubs beat the Giants twelve to one, and because Russ knew the pitching coach from his days with the Mud Hens,
Shawn and Nate each got an autographed ball signed by the whole team. Afterward, Russ invited Nate’s family out to the farm, and Mr. Goodman promised they would come. Shawn reminded Nate to bring his suit for a swim in Lake Holsapple, which he swam in every day, rain or shine.

  Before the Fraziers started back for home, Shawn showed Russ where the old tenement was and told him about his hideaway up on the roof. They talked all the way back to Circle. He wanted to tell his dad every detail of his adventures with the Puddlejumpers, but knew he couldn’t. So he told what he could and left out what he had to.

  Shawn settled happily into life on the farm. But every day when chores were done, he would search the barn and the fields and the woods for any sign of the little ones. No matter how hard he looked or how many times he shouted “Hooty-hoo” he never saw them again, not the slightest trace. Of course he tried stomping in every puddle he could find, but without his Spiral Tattoo, a puddle was just a puddle.

  The next year, on the first day of the autumn harvest, Shawn and Joey stayed home from school to help their parents. With all the rain, the wheat had grown tall and the earth had ripened in extravagant, sun-swept colors. Russ said it was going to be a very good year.

  It was early morning, and the sun hovered at the crest of the ridge as Shawn finished milking Beulah. He left the barn with a brimming pail, which he carried to the edge of the ripened wheat. His eyes searched the fields for a sign but, as usual, there was nothing. He sighed, then reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out his pocket watch, and popped open the dented lid. It was 6:25, almost time for breakfast. He dipped some milk from the pail with a small mason jar, then strolled into the field, his free hand skimming the bearded wheat stalks. Like every other morning, he set the jar carefully on the ground, then cupped his hands and called, “Hooty-hoo!”